


Sirens and Sailors

by t0talcha0s



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dave falls in love with Rose's voice, F/M, Music, POV Dave, Second person POV, Sexual Content, gratuitous description, the music making process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A good voice is a rare thing. Such an intoxicating voice is a gift from the gods above to a blessed man. Rose Lalonde is a gift from satan straight to you; and you couldn't be a more blessed man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sirens and Sailors

**Author's Note:**

> You remind me of a song that I can't seem to skip  
> Your skin's the record and the needle is my fingertips  
> Recollection, I touch you and I get a glimpse  
> Of all the same old songs and repeated skits  
> -  
> There's a world and I can't wait to expose you  
> I play you out until everybody knows you  
> Till you up, fix the flaws like Melodyne  
> But you're forever, now you're music that'll never die  
> Yo, it's timeless  
> I hear inflections of forever in your high pitch  
> Put my face to your chest, hear the bass in your breath  
> And baby my whole mind shifts  
> \- Vinyl, Angel Haze.

Rose Lalonde has a musicality you can very much appreciate. Not even in complete regards to her instrumentation, she walks with rhythm and purpose, her movements are slow and languid, and her speech is an incomplete aria being written further each day. Her writings, that which you've read, perfectly captures a pacing and rhythm and even a melody; manipulating her words to music would be so easy anyone could do it. Even her speech rings lightly with an operatic sense of melody, and when she plays. Oh your world halts when she has a violin in hand, slow and methodical, or fast, almost too fast and you feel left in the dust. You've even used her in your tracks before, whether acoustic violin, or the electric violin you bought her because you needed it for a song and she was the only one who could do it up to your standards. She is undeniable to a musician. The worst part is she knows it. 

The first time you heard her sing you had just gotten home, entered the apartment quietly. You had hoped to sneak up on her and freak her out, your stealth always helpful in such situations. The apartment was quiet though, and you recognized the sound of the shower immediately; that is until something cut through the shower's white noise. 

You couldn't understand the lyrics you heard first, you could hardly discern the words and as her voice raised louder, confident and unsuspecting, for the stretched out 'oh' you were struck breathless. Her voice filled your chest, as if in the cavity there was some void of which you were unaware, some place she could fill and claim as her own. Your chest swelled as you breathed with her, her voice measured and even, in perfect tone quality, able to last several phrases until needing to take a breath. She was impeccable. Sparks lit behind your eyes, ideas clamoring into your brain. When she sings time stops, and you of all people comprehend the importance of time. Your life is filled with exuberance in those moments, a swell of terror and impermanence and beauty and you're struck to your knees with it. You really ought to worship her. You immediately knew you needed a recording of her, even if not for a track, if only for your own selfish desire to contain her voice, possess it for it is too beautiful to share and even Pandora would keep that box shut tight so it would not escape. However sadly, the front door swung shut and the noise caused her to stop singing. Despair overcame you and you know you'd have to find a way to hear her voice again. 

-

"Hey I need a female voice for a track I'm doing, would you mind?" You ask the very next day. Rose looks up from her tattered book, Frankenstein, the margins are covered in notes and the offending blue pen is tucked behind her ear. She raises an eyebrow into a perfect curve, she once divulged she practiced to make it perfect when she was younger. 

"I don't sing Dave." 

"Everyone with functioning vocal cords sings." 

"I don't sing well, Dave." She corrects, turning back to her book, case closed, conversation over, no dice. She knows you've heard her sing, the bitch, a snarky broad and her shenanigans. Keeping you, a man of music, away from the ultimate prize, a woman who puts sirens to shame. What horseshit. 

-

You ask her again a week later, after you've come home from work and you find her up at the late hour. You flop down with a practiced lack of grace next to her on the couch. She sits lotus style, book, 1984 this time, in her lap and hair feathered and pushed back. Black sweatpants and a burgundy shirt the perfect color for red wine and just the right mixture of formfitting and too big. She manages to make lazy and sleep deprived look graceful damn her. 

"You look rather worn out, tough crowd?" She glances up at you before returning to her book and you nod, your music had been the usual fantastic, and the crowd was receptive and the energy high, but you've been feeling like you need something new in your music, fresh. 

"The DJ before me has started mixing with teenage pop music, he can mix, and the singing's disguised well enough, but god that quality of voice." You almost shudder, it so breathy and weak, you like your chorus with a rich, full, talented voice. "People are more receptive to songs with lyrics, think I'm going to have to up my game." 

"You're being transparent Dave." She says, smug smirk tugging at the corner of a lipstickless mouth. 

"Am I now?" 

"Mhm." You leave a pause, obviously for her to elaborate. "You're going to ask me to sing for your tracks again." 

"I don't understand why you keep declining, you certainly aren't shy." 

"I prefer coy." You flash her a withering look, not sure if she sees it. 

"You've been in my songs hundreds of times." 

"With violin not vocal cord."

"Essentially the same." 

"Singing is much more intimate, and I'm not a strong enough singer for the task." Bullshit! This lying witch. You drop it though, if only for her sake. 

-

The Thursday after that you're cooking in the kitchen, your ironic domestic routine complete with a pink apron embroidered to say 'hoochie-mama'. It was a Christmas gift from Roxy. Rose sits on the counter legs pulled up and crossed over each other. You hum as you cook, you can't cook for shit but you promised Rose you'd pay her back for accidentally making her late to work, besides any idiot can cook spaghetti. You hear Rose mumbling the words to your song, but it's on the edge of your attention. When she starts singing under her breath you begin to notice, your eyes flick to her instead of the pot of boiling noodles on the stove. When she sings under her breath like that it sounds like a beautiful prayer to some occult gods, it's so captivating and there's a hidden semblance of power in the words you can't be bothered to pay attention to. You know what she's saying but you're more interested in how she's doing it. Less and less attention is payed until you're running on autopilot and all of your attention is poised to keep Rose singing. You realize you've drifted closer to her when she chuckles, low and amused and snapping you out of your haze. 

"You're going to over-cook the pasta." You rush to grab the pot off the stove, turning away from her as she hops off the counter. The steam as you pour the pasta into a colander fogs your shades and your visions not fully clear until you and she are sitting at the table. It's a bit messy, an abandoned knitting project, bills, an empty water bottle from one of your shows, and a copy of Rose's latest book draft cluttering it in a homey way. The two of you eat in silence until you look up from your pasta to her. Her skin is dark and rich bright, lavender eyes sitting like stars a contrast to it and you're sure you could trace constellations in her pores. Her hair is light and feathery and it curls flatteringly near the bottom, she's beautiful. Her eyes flick up to yours and a slow, snarky grin blooms on her face, and your opinion quickly switches to some choice insults. 

"Would I have to pay you to sing for me or something?" Not that she needs the money, inherited mama Lalonde's cash. That's how the two of you can afford to live so luxuriously. You know Roxy has her share tucked away somewhere. 

"You're sounding rather desperate, Strider." You are, she's always liked making you desperate. 

"I'm not, I just think this could be a great opportunity for both of us."

"For you." She corrects but you shake your head. "I don't want fame or money 

"Yeah but I could make you sound so beautiful it'd be unholy." That catches her attention, you can tell by the spark of intrigue in her eyes, that selfish glint, the urge to be the best there is. You grin like a con artist. 

"Deal." _Fuck_ yes. You're too busy plotting a new song and you miss what she has to say after that. 

-

"So who's this broad you've been talking about?" Your assistant engineer asks when you come in on Rose's recording day. 

"The best." Is how you respond, and you feel him roll his eyes as he double checks that everything is working properly. You've been overseeing this job almost obsessively, usually you're not here this early and certainly not this excited. Rose's favorite tea, mint with a hint of raspberry and honey, sits freshly made for her when she arrives. She looks nice when she does, you'd told her not to wear anything too tight or cumbersome, you wanted her to be completely relaxed and natural. The clack of her shoes matches up with your heartbeat, elevated because you're so damn excited. Her pants are form fitting but not too tight and her shirt is for the college she was thinking of attending but she ended up tossing the idea away, damn her she's lovely. 

"I doubt I will be adequate for your music Dave." She says when you hand her a cup of tea, she regards it fondly. You don't bother saying you agree with her, your music isn't nearly good enough for her. 

"Consider it a worthwhile experiment." You say handing her the sheet music you know she's seen millions of times since you've composed it. You doubt you could be angry if she deviated from it though. She takes it in her hand and rolls her eyes. When the cup of tea is drained you usher her into the booth, she places the headphones on as you do. "Have you warmed up?" She brushes a spot of dirt off the pop filter. 

"Of course I have, this is essentially a performance after all." She's always been good about that, never arrives without her violin tuned, fresh rosin in her case, why would it be any different with her voice? You nod, all you want initially is a raw track, if you dare edit it you'll do that later, now is to see if the glory of her voice can even be captured. She runs her hands through her hair, as your assistant adjusts the microphone to her height. She gives him a grateful nod before turning to you in the booth. Her hands fidget, she's not used to being here without an instrument. She doesn't appear it but you know she's nervous. You shoo your assistant out, just you and her, flick on the equipment and fit your eyes on her. 

"Ready?" 

"Couldn't be more so." You give a gentle snort, more like an exhale through your nose. 

"Well then madam Lalonde, five four three two," you mouth 'one' and give her a hand signal. There's a brief moment before the background music kicks into her headphones and then she opens her mouth. 

And oh god. You'd created this melody strictly for her, this rhythm to fit her movements, how she talks. You wanted this to be as natural for her as possible and it's certainly paying off. Her words (your words) blur into pure sound, pure sensation, and in this moment she doesn't seem hardly of this earth. You are Icarus and she is your sun. Your body seems numb, frozen and melting, fluid, and even it doesn't seem to belong to you in this moment. Each breath she takes, in all the right places, fills your lungs alongside hers. Each word she sings harshly stabs, electric, between your ribs. Each held out note is a noose tied for your neck. Each pause, each rest an apocalypse. The four minutes and twenty three seconds it takes for her to finish your song is too long and too short and you feel so terribly, painfully alive. You're not over the shock of it when she clears her throat. 

"Was that adequate?" And her words are needles, all snark and wit as you know she observes your awe. You end the recording and nod, every movement still seeming numb. 

"It'll do." You say as your wit returns in fractions, voice thankfully steady and not as reverent as you feel. 

When both of you are home, you open the door for her, letting her slip inside before you. 

"Rose Lalonde." You say as you shut the door. 

"Dave Strider."

"I am going to ravish you." She laughs, tinkling and beautiful and her smirk is deafening. 

"You're all bark and no bite." You grab her by the shirt and pull her into your bedroom, you can show her bite. She smiles like a snake that's already bitten. 

-

You're never able to coax Rose to go out with you to your sets, so today is the first time you've felt nervous in a while. It's a different nervous, a type you can't quantify, a sweet, tingling, expectant childish nervousness. She's not allowed up into the booth with you so she sits by the bar, flirting with the hot, tattooed bartender. You know Rose wouldn't cheat on you so you hardly worry, even if you know she would enjoy testing the feeling of those lip rings. You think Rose is the more attractive of the two, especially in that tight, black dress with a neckline high enough to be called prudish but a skirt short enough to make up for it, she's always had lovely legs, dark and soft and elegant. Your manager coughs at you and you nod, stepping up to your tables and getting yourself settled. You put on your show face (a cocky smile and headphones over one ear) and start your set. You never start with the best so Rose will just have to wait to hear what you've done with her vocals. 

When you do play her song you make sure to locate her, dancing and swaying to the beats you always make irresistible. A few people have tried to get her to dance with them but she's refused. It takes her a moment to realize her vocals are playing and what you've done to them: nothing. You spent days and nights slaving over the track, thinking of what to do with her glorious sound, and the answer was obvious. Support it. So you put in beat and backing instrumentals, providing harmony when needed. Even her voice recorded, even after you've heard it so many times, still holds that clear, stunning affect. The crowd around her reacts the best they ever have, dancing to it perfectly, and you know how to play a crowd and this is a home fucking run. Rose twines her hands in her hair, looks up at you in your booth and rolls her hips, pointedly getting lost in the music, her mouth opens to sing along and god you wish you could hear her. 

After your set you walk down the steps to find her standing by security, you hike your bag up higher on your shoulder and flash her a cocky grin. She grabs your collar and with a rough tug downward is pressing her lips against yours. You happily respond in kind. 

"That was your best track yet." 

"You don't listen to my music." 

"But that was certainly your best track yet."

"Of course." You concede and she kisses you again, mouth tasting a tinge like alcohol and a dark sugar sweetness she always has. 

"You'll have to make me sound that good again sometime." You're giddy at the suggestion, you'd have her in all her music god willing. 

"Take me home and I bet I could get you to sound just as good." She chuckles and you can feel the eyeroll she's holding back on. 

"I'd like to see you try." 

"I'd like to try." You take her hand and lead her home. 

What you don't tell her is that she always sounds that good, and she doesn't need your help to sound that lovely. Though your help certainly helps, especially with your hands on her thighs and your head between them. And those noises, just as electric, just as stunning, just as musical and melodic, are yours alone; but you're convinced that only makes them all the better.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kind of in love with daverose ngl and I've wanted to write this for a while. 
> 
> I also love input on my writing, which can be provided here or on my tumblr at Barefootcosplayer.


End file.
